I’m sort of writing this with hopes that no one reads, and that everyone reads. What can I say? I’m known to be complicated. Welcome to the mind of a girl who has a lot going on in her head, sucks at talking, but needs to put it out there.
I’m writing this as a blog because I was going to write a journal to you, and I realized while working on a paper for my BSN my hand starts cramping quickly. This is more like a journal, or for the time being is notes to you. My best friend. The only person I want to see and hold and talk to. And apologize. And be angry at. And be sad for. I’m so sad for you, and I am so sorry that you are going through this. I’m sad because I didn’t stop this disease from taking over your every thought. I’m sad because I let my love for you blind me into thinking you were okay instead of arguing with you. I’m sad because I love you so much. I’m sad because you don’t want to be clean, you aren’t ready to commit to a sober life. I’m sad that you are so sad being high is the only way to turn it off. I’m sad if I ever made you feel like you need to turn it off.
If I thought my life was complicated, I can’t imagine what it is to feel as intensely as you do and have gone through everything you have. You are such a strong, beautiful person. I wish that I could help you see the beauty in all of your feelings. I can only hope that my lack of emotional expression never has made you feel like you should feel less. Crying is okay. Laughing is okay. Anger is normal. It’s okay to feel. No one can ever tell you how to feel, your feelings are yours.
I didn’t begin this post to tell you how sorry I am. Though I’m sure that is a trend that will carry throughout the entire blog. I started this blog to talk about my feelings. Maybe it will benefit me, but mostly I want to help you see how much I love you.
I’m not sure exactly where to start. Should it start with the past? Finding the paraphernalia, but ignoring it for as long as I did? Ignoring it because I did not want to argue with you. Ignoring it because addressing it had no positive repercussion. Ignoring it because I never imagined being where we are right now. Maybe we start with the first burned spoon in the sink along with the muddler-type thing. When you were infuriated I would even ask why there was a burned spoon…..but you admittedly “melted down some pills” and guilted yourself over it for a week. You felt guilty, so you must know better, right? You felt guilty, so you got better at hiding it from me…..or you didn’t feel guilty at all, you just didn’t want anyone interrupting your high. Then, I’m not sure what changed, but you stopped hiding it from me. Maybe my constant plea telling you ‘I never judge you for your using or anything else’ finally got through your head, or maybe that was your way of asking for help. When I would ask ‘did you use?’ and you answered ‘yes;’ that was the end of the conversation, no arguments just the truth. I thought I was thankful for that. I thought you being emotional and saying ‘this is a trigger’ was a good step, the admission process had begun. Honesty. Transparency. We were going in the right direction. So I thought.
Then you overdosed. I was home. I had already gone to sleep, you idiot. You KNEW I was going to sleep. Your behavior had been odd those two nights after you worked; coming home and ‘running to a meeting.’ The 9pm meeting that you left the house for at 940pm. Then shopping for K’s bday with her mother. At 9 pm on a Thursday night. Her mother who also has a substance abuse problem. I tracked your location. Both nights. I know you were at someones house, probably a crack house. I asked about it, and you lied. You came home ‘sober.’ By sober I mean taking benzo after benzo, but no big deal…they’re your meds. You wanted to talk about S, again. The guy you have been dating for the last few weeks who suddenly called it off for some bullshit reason. His loss, I keep telling you. Don’t call him. You can miss him, you can be sad. Can you call next week? No. What about if I ask him to meet for coffee? No, A. He gave you whatever lame excuse he chose and I can promise that is all he is going to say. It will probably put you back at square 1, sad from the start. Well can I call him this weekend? A, obviously you don’t want to hear my answers or acknowledge them so I am done talking about it. Your eyes filled with tears and you went outside. I was ready for bed, instead of ignoring the fact that I upset you like I usually do, I came outside to see what you were doing. I asked if you wanted to lay down together and catch up on our show. You said no. When I asked what you were GOING to do, you insisted you were talking to your mother. Obviously you were hurt by me and I should give you time to get over it. We would talk in the A.M. I went to bed, my bed.
‘Hi Hollis’ your mothers voice rang through my room around 1120pm ish. “Hey mom, what are you doing here?” She explained that you sounded really upset, she’s glad we agree on the S subject, and she wanted to pick you up to go to her house. You were in the shower so she was going to cut up the carpet in AT’s room while she waited.
‘A! A! A! OPEN THE DOOR’ Your mother is screaming your name. I don’t get up, I assume you were doing some shady shit in the bathroom, because that’s the only time you lock the door. Then the panicked screaming changes from your name to my name. I jump out of bed in my underwear and run through the house to find you on the floor in the doorway with a robe falling off, a face mask on, Lana’s “Ride” playing, and an IV in your hand. I give you a hard sternal rub, no response. Your fingertips are pale white. I do a few chest compressions, and you still don’t react. I pull your eyelids back: pinpoint pupils. I tell your mother to call 9-1-1. She says what we are both thinking: what about your(our) job. I tell her that you’re sick, addiction is a terrible disease, they can’t fire you for that. Right now, if we don’t get you narcan you’ll die and won’t have a job anyway so it doesn’t really matter. I’m back on your chest, trying to give good CPR without breaking your ribs. She can’t figure out how to pause Lana on your phone, my phone is in my bed and I need to continue CPR. I turn off the music and call 9-1-1. The dispatch woman may have made me angrier than I have ever been, asking so many questions: our address, who I am, best call back number, what happened. ‘Just send me someone with narcan, my best friend overdosed she is blue and not breathing.’ “Okay, if she’s not breathing I am going to walk you through CPR.” To that I respond ‘PLEASE DO NOT WALK ME THROUGH CPR!!!! I AM A NURSE. I NEED NARCAN. I HAVE BEEN PROVIDING CPR SINCE BEFORE I CALLED YOU.’ The entire time your mother is watching in a panic screaming your name. I tell her to unlock the door for when someone arrives, as I keep repeating your name. You can’t die on me, A.
A loud knock on the door. Finally. We both yell to come in, but no one does. From the minute your mom screamed my name instead of yours, until now seems like an eternity. Your mom goes to open the door. A police officer is running over toward us, asking what happened while snapping something off of his vest. I tell him your drug(s) of choice while still giving chest compressions. Your lips are a deep blue. I tell him please just give the narcan, ‘is all I need is narcan’. The only sentence that makes sense to me. The something that he pulled off his vest and fell to the floor was the narcan, he administers it. I don’t want to stop compressions, but your thready pulse is there. Nothing else is happening, I keep getting back on your chest. He tells me to relax, give the narcan time to work. I get angry, I know the science behind the narcan….but you’re still not opening your eyes. It’s nearly impossible to tell if you are breathing alone. Your pulse is still thready. You’re still blue. I ask him for flumazenil, romazicon, you fuck around with benzos, too. Only the fire truck carries that. You make a noise, and bloody foam comes out of your nose. He and I roll you to your side to prevent you from aspirating. He’s begging you to wake up, ‘Come on, A. Wake up.’ EMS and the fire department show up. The officer tells the story, mentions your old track marks, too. Asks me why your hand is bloody. I don’t mention the IV I ripped out when I found you. I wipe away your blood. I ask them to give you romazicon, just in case. You like opiates and benzos, you can be careless with your prescriptions. You will shoot up anything you can get your hands on. Your eyes start to open, and you’re obviously still high and confused. The only thing you say is I’m sorry, multiple times. You’re on the stretcher, Lifepack attached, tachycardic, O2 saturation around 80%. You pull off the nonrebreather and apologize again, asking about work and if you are going to be in trouble. I come closer to you and tell you to put the mask on, meanwhile the officer tells you you’re not in trouble, A. We all are just here to help you. He was very kind to you. I tell you to stop fighting, be a good patient or I will give you ‘the business, like our patients.’
In these moments, I was okay. You were breathing. The text I sent AT was too normal for someone who just did CPR on their best friend. We were both okay. Ish.
Blaaaaaa 